


Overtime

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, M/M, Obsession, mild crossdressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 08:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2724758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dennis gets his dream job essentially stalking Harry Potter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overtime

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fic for creeveyluv’s “Harry/Dennis” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For how young he is, Dennis has had a large amount of jobs. It isn’t difficult, as he can slip so easily into both the Muggle and magic worlds, and he did well enough in school that he can cover a wide range of vocations. He works at a zoo for five months, and that might be his favourite, even though all of the animals are magicless; at least they’re cute and more interesting than most humans. But in every job Dennis gets, there’s something _missing_ , and he finds himself growing bored and applying elsewhere, every time submitting a new Ministry application and hoping, _praying_ to God and Merlin and whoever else might be listening that today’s the day the position he _really_ wants opens up. 

And then the old little witch at the desk he wants finally retires. Dennis has made so many trips to the Ministry, both to submit new resumes and to catch a glimpse of his _hero_ , that his application’s on the top of the list. Most of the Auror department, or at least, the secretaries outside the Aurors’ offices, know of Dennis. They don’t quite know _him_ , but they smile at him when he comes in and say _not today._

And then he gets the owl, asking for an interview at the same time as his morning shift at the diner, and Dennis calls in to give his two weeks. The manager there sounds devastated, though Dennis can’t imagine why; his history of work shows that he never stays one place long. He still gets good references every time. The diner manager says she will as well, and she wishes Dennis luck on his next endeavor.

Dennis shows up for his interview in brand new robes that stretched his budget, and he sits amongst the other candidates outside on fold out chairs with his heart beating so fast he can barely breathe. He’s never like this on interviews, but this is _the_ interview. He gets like this whenever he’s at the Ministry and he sees _Harry Potter_ , the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the man of all Dennis’ fantasies from the first time Dennis put his foot in Hogwarts and found out every one of the legends was true. 

He’s never wanted anything so badly in his life. Well, other than the general wanting of _Harry_ , of course. He doesn’t particularly care about the job itself, but he’s sure he can do it. He has no other career goals. He just wants to be stable and happy, and he knows that Harry can do all that by mere presence alone. 

But the old secretary is the one to interview them. She smiles kindly at Dennis and offers him biscuits, while sitting at Harry’s desk. Dennis tries not to swivel and ogle every centimeter of the space. He’s only been inside a few times. The secretary runs over his qualifications, asks him a few menial questions that he answers only a bit nervously, and she mentions that he went to Hogwarts because Harry went there, and Dennis says yes but he was several years behind. Most of the candidates went to Hogwarts. But he thinks he’s the only one that knew Harry, even in his only vague capacity, and the former secretary says she’ll have to check in with her boss before she makes her decision, but he’ll hear the answer by Monday. 

He gets an owl that evening saying he has the job, he starts on Tuesday, and welcome aboard. Harry’s signature is at the bottom. Dennis stares at the letter over his cereal for several minutes before his hands start to shake so badly that he has to put it down. His owl looks at him funny from her perch atop the fridge, and he tells her not to judge because everybody has their thing and _Harry’s_ his thing and he doesn’t care if it’s weird or he’s different because he knew all that and now he’s _really going to work for Harry Potter._

He shows up to work ten minutes early, after waiting an hour in the Ministry lobby trying to talk himself out of looking insane, done up in another new pair of robes. The mahogany desk outside of Harry’s office is vacant of personal effects, but there’s still a stack of memos atop it and a wizard’s paging machine. He clutches his own box of supplies—quills, ink, scrolls, paper weights, and just about everything he could think of that he might possibly need—and he sits down in the wheelie chair and shakes with glee. 

Then the door next to him opens and he nearly jumps a meter, dropping his box at his feet in the process. Horror-struck, Dennis tries to squeak ‘hi’ and ‘sorry’ at the same time, coming out with, “Hisorry!”

Harry, unbelievably handsome Harry Potter, gives him a quizzical look. Harry’s only wearing dress pants and a button up shirt and a Gryffindor-red tie, no robes. The clothes are too loose on him for Dennis to get any peeks at his body, and his hair is just as messy as it was when they were at school. His green eyes are just as sharp behind his glasses. Dennis realizes belatedly he’s staring, then topples out of his chair in his effort to get to the ground, so he can start scooping his supplies back into the box. His face is redder than the tie. 

He nearly passes out when Harry bends down beside him and starts to help collect things. “Sorry I startled you,” Harry says, just as considerate as Dennis remembers. “Congratulations on the job, Dennis.” _Dennis_. Harry knows his name. Pleasure spikes through Dennis’ body like Firewhiskey.

He mumbles, “Thank you, H... Mr. Potter. Sir.” He’s such an idiot. As he picks up a Muggle three-hole-punch, something he’ll probably never need but has just in case, Harry’s fingers close around his, and Dennis’ entire being catches fire. 

Then Harry lets go, as Dennis has a good grip already, and Dennis chucks the thing into his box before it becomes too obvious that his hands are trembling. Everything packed, he grabs the box and lifts it back to his desk and tries not to stare. 

Harry gives him a smile. A warm, genuine smile that tells Dennis he was right all this time, following the invisible thread that draws him to this man. For a moment, they’re just standing there, Harry looking kind and perfect and Dennis feeling half enthralled and half unworthy. Finally, Harry coughs and looks aside, and he rakes a hand back through his dark hair. The fluorescent office light catches on the surface of his watch. “Well, I just wanted to say hi. I’ll leave you to it.”

To what, Dennis couldn’t care less. This is all he wanted. Harry gives him an awkward sort of shrug and turns, headed back into the confines off the office. Harry closes the wood door behind him, leaving Dennis to feel numb and bristling. 

Then Dennis drops into his chair, takes a few minutes to breathe, and starts sorting through the memos piled up, trying desperately not to daydream. 

He daydreams _a lot_. He works too, but by the end of the first week, he’s imagined Harry taking him against every surface off the Auror department, from Harry’s desk to his desk to Mr. Weasley’s desk down the hall. He’s fantasized about kneeling at Harry’s feet, below Harry’s desk, and about having Harry against the hard linoleum floor, he’s even fantasized in the lift about it jamming with the two of them inside and nothing to do but chat and nuzzle and kiss. The second week is much the same. He completes his work well, efficiently, timely, but he spends all the seconds in between holding himself back from going in and offering Harry more. 

Harry is good to him. Cordial, a bit distracted, and Dennis learns quickly that he’s not the only long-time fan that thought to get in through the office. Harry gets a tremendous amount of fanmail, and when Dennis presents Harry with the first bagful, Harry just groans and waves into the corner. Apparently, he gets double that at home. Dennis offers to sort them but is glad when Harry declines; it would probably make him jealous. 

He has to tell visitors on a regular basis that Harry will only see them for business. But Harry doesn’t get much business. He does most of his work on his own or with the few other Aurors he already trusts. As the head of the department, he’s relegated mostly to paperwork, and sometimes he says he gets bored and wants to take on more missions, but other times he says he’s tired and it’s time for other people to pick up the world’s pieces. Dennis always agrees with whatever he says and brings him coffee, even though it isn’t in the job description. Harry isn’t particular about how it’s made, but he does like to have a little sugar with it. 

Once, about a month in, Harry stops him on the way out, grabs his wrist as he places the sandwich on Harry’s desk, and Dennis goes absolutely still, warm all over. His skin seems to burn where Harry’s touching him. Serving Harry never loses its novelty. Harry looks up at him and says, “Thank you, Dennis. You’re a real help to me.” There’s something deep and lilting in the words that Dennis doesn’t deserve or understand. 

And Dennis is tongue-tied and dizzy but somehow manages to mumble, “I’m just doing my job.”

“Well, you’re good at it. I appreciate it. Thanks.” A short grin, and Harry adds, chuckling, “You know, I’ve had a lot of attention, but I’m still getting used to someone bringing me a proper meal.” Dennis doesn’t know what that means. 

He’s heard rumours, of course, about Harry’s home life before he knew what he was. But Dennis doesn’t put much stock in rumours and doesn’t want to press Harry. He’s sure the only thing that keeps him here is his ability to stifle his admiration. He only fawns over Harry silently. He listens when Harry says that he wants to be treated like a man, not a god. So Dennis treats him like a good man that deserves to have lunches brought in when he works too hard to go out. Dennis doesn’t know what to say. He stumbles over, “Thank you, Sir.”

“Harry.”

Dennis’ breath hitches. He’s been waiting for this day. Harry sometimes starts to say it, but Dennis, embarrassed and using the proper terms for an excuse at distance, so he doesn’t moan Harry’s name like he wants to, always rushes off before the correction comes. 

Today, Harry says firmly, “You can call me Harry.” His smile afterwards is friendly but awkward, like most of Harry’s social habits. 

Dennis is all restrained rapture. “Thank you, Harry.” And then he turns on his heel and leaves before he can make a complete fool of himself. He chants: _Harry, Harry, Harry_ in his head, closes the door behind himself on the way out, sits down in his chair and resigns himself to being a psycho. 

He brings work home every night. Not _work_ work; he gets it all done at the office; he’s a hard worker and Harry never asks for more than Dennis can do. But he thinks about it, as he paces his tiny little one-bedroom apartment. He thinks about Harry, what little chitchat they had that day, the disheveled fall of Harry’s black mane, the way Harry grinned or sighed or groaned, whatever the day was like. Harry is usually the last thing Dennis thinks of before he falls asleep. Sometimes it’s sexual, sometimes just romantic, sometimes just generic. It doesn’t matter. Harry doesn’t have anyone else and hasn’t talked about dating the entire time Dennis has been there, so it leaves Dennis free to imagine that it could be him to break Harry’s dry spell. He wonders if Harry prefers women—he dated girls at Hogwarts—and he buys lingerie and tries it on at home, looking in the mirror, wondering if it could be enough. If he tucked himself between his legs and covered his chest, he could maybe pass. He’s small, slender. He could grow out his hair and paint his face. He thinks he looks better with short hair, though, so he keeps it that way until he gets more statistics on Harry’s preferences to work with. 

He starts wearing women’s lingerie to the office under his robes, just for the knowledge that if something did happen, he might be ready. Maybe he could excite Harry. Maybe he’d disgust Harry. It never quite seems worth the risk to try; he couldn’t stand if he got fired; but he wants more and Harry is so warm, so inviting, that it’s intoxicating. Dennis, in a trance, wants to spill his heart all the time, but then Harry will sigh and mention a case or brush back into his office or leave for an appointment and Dennis is left standing there, clutching a file or Harry’s coffee and holding himself back from draping himself over Harry’s desk like a callboy. 

Six months in, he works his way past small talk. They have _real_ conversations, when they can, here and there, sometimes about Quidditch, often Harry’s friends, and it quickly becomes obvious that Dennis doesn’t _have_ any friends, but Harry doesn’t seem to judge him at all. Harry doesn’t seem to care much for social constructs. Harry is perfect to Dennis in just about every conceivable way, and once Harry asks what Dennis wants to be in life, and Dennis stupidly blurts, “Here,” which doesn’t even make grammatical sense, but is still better than “your partner.” Harry just looks at him, and Dennis forces composure and says, “This really means a lot to me.” Harry nods. 

Dennis trails Harry to the lift after shifts, but he can never bring himself to suggest they do anything after. Harry often looks tired, and Harry never likes having fans stalk him. Dennis doesn’t want to impose. But he still thinks about it. Once, Harry suggests they go for lunch, and Dennis’ eyes nearly bulge out of his skull, but he can only weakly say that it’s not time for his yet. Harry, technically, is his boss and could override the department-wide schedule, but Harry just says an awkward, “Oh,” like it was stupid of him to ask, and heads off while Dennis sits there and _stares_ at his retreating back, all consumed by want. 

A year in and maybe they’re friends. Sort of. They’ve never seen each other outside of work except for the occasional time they bump into one another outside or they leave at the same time. Dennis tries not to make these meetings as numerous as he’d like, just for Harry’s sake. Dennis doesn’t really _go_ out, other than work and essential needs, and he still doesn’t have friends, but he sees Harry every day and talks to Harry every day, even more than the other secretaries who often offer outings that Dennis never takes. Maybe Harry doesn’t think they’re really _friends_ , but Harry at least seems to _like_ him, and that keeps Dennis warm at night. 

And it takes Dennis that year to talk himself into doing _something_ , just something small, even though he knows it’ll risk everything. For a long time, seeing Harry was enough. But now it just isn’t. And he tells himself it isn’t fair. Harry deserves to know that every time he touches Dennis—a handshake here, a pat on the shoulder there—Dennis loses focus for the rest of the day. It isn’t fair to either of them. 

On the anniversary of him being hired, he takes Harry coffee and a salad for lunch and psyches himself up to say a diluted version of _I’m madly in love with you,_ but then Harry says, “Thank you, Dennis.” And there’s a slight difference in the way he says Dennis’ name, just a little tinge of something extra, and Dennis is dizzy and has to leave so he can sit back down at his desk and melt into nothing. 

The next day Harry has a meeting through lunch and is busy the rest of the day, and on Thursday he’s out on an inspection. On Friday, Dennis spends all morning pretending he’s the little engine that could, something he used to do in Hogwarts before big tests that made all the pureblood students look at him funny. Colin taught him that. He thinks Colin would be proud of him, of sticking this obsession out, of managing to live with it, of having a relatively normal life despite his insanity and working his way up to Harry Potter’s front door. It makes Dennis feel stupid for not taking more pictures of Harry. If he gets fired, he’d at least want to have that token of memory. 

Harry comes into the office half an hour late, looking exhausted and gorgeous and yawning as he waves to Dennis on the way through his door. Dennis stares down at the paperwork scattered over his countertop and figures most of it can wait until after he’s thrown his life away. There’s one file he’ll have to bring in. He heads for the kitchenette at the back of the department with the mug in tow that he first brought for Harry and won’t let anyone else use. 

Then he’s knocking on Harry’s door, clutching the file to his chest with his elbow and the coffee in his other hand. He hears rustling on the other side, and Harry calls, “Come in.”

It’s a struggle to twist the handle. Dennis worms his way inside and awkwardly swings the door shut with his shoe. Harry stays seated, bent over his work, while Dennis approaches. 

But Harry looks up when Dennis puts the coffee down in front of him, and his smile is radiant. Even with dark circles under his eyes and little wrinkles starting around the edges, he looks as beautiful as the first day Dennis saw him. Dennis’ heart is pounding a marathon again, but he can’t go back now. He wants it too much. 

He licks his lips and means to say how he feels, but instead quietly asks, “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Like this is some cheesy porno and maybe Harry will ask him for a blowjob. He’d do it in a heartbeat. 

But Harry just says, “No,” while he blows the steam off his coffee. He tips it a little in Dennis’ direction and adds, “Thanks.”

It’s sort of a dismissal. Not an ironclad one, but enough that Dennis is tempted to take the out and bolt. He clings to the manila folder in his hands as an excuse to stay, though he doesn’t put it down. 

He takes a few shaky steps around Harry’s desk, stands next to Harry’s swivel chair, and takes in the confused note on Harry’s handsome features. Mouth dry, he asks, “Are you _sure?_ ”

Harry puts his coffee down. His lips have fallen into something of a frown, but mostly it’s just a lost look, neutral, and he doesn’t answer. It puts it all on Dennis. Dennis has to explain himself. He takes in a breath, exhales, does it again. 

The he blurts, “I am so sorry. _So_ sorry. I know you probably get these offers all the time, and I totally don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and I _really_ didn’t want to lose my job or make you feel bad so I tried not to say anything but it’s been forever and I just can’t take all the fantasizing without at least trying—I mean, shit, I’m sorry—I’m not—if you want I can just shut up and leave, I swear, and I’ll never bring it up again—or you can fire me, you _should_ fire me if you don’t like me or this is weird for you—I mean, of course it’s weird, I know it’s weird—it’s totally out of line—but I _really, really, really_ like you and I... I...” He runs out of breath around the same time he realizes the ceiling and floor and walls are closing in on him. That’s probably the most he’s ever said in one go. Harry’s got a dazed look plastered all over his face, and Dennis repeats in a terrified squeak, “Sorry.”

The only reason he doesn’t run for it is that his knees are shaking and he doesn’t think his legs will hold out long enough to get anywhere. Finally, Harry looks away. 

Harry clears his throat, looks carefully down at the desk, and says, slowly, hesitantly, “Dennis, if you’re... uh... saying what I think you’re saying...” He pauses and glances back up at Dennis, who’s probably completely pink and offering exactly what Harry must assume. “...Dennis, I’m too old for you.”

It’s blunt, and useless, and not at all what Dennis was expecting, and he counters surprisingly easily, “No, you’re not.” They’re not that far apart at all. Harry just _thinks_ he’s older than he is, because he’s got the whole weight of the world on his shoulders. And maybe he thinks of Dennis like a child, because sometimes Dennis acts like one. But he doesn’t want to be pushy, so he says again, “I’m sorry. I really didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Even though this is probably the most uncomfortable thing imaginable. 

Harry shakes is head and says, “No, it’s... it’s okay. But... I’m your boss, Dennis. It wouldn’t be fair to you.” _Fair to him._ Every time Dennis hears his name come out of Harry’s lips, he wants to shiver in delight. “There would be a complete power imbalance...”

“I only got this job to be near you,” Dennis says, and it’s true. He could get a new job tomorrow if he wanted. Because a Ministry secretary isn’t at all any goal of his. Harry is. Harry looks conflicted, then rakes a hand through his hair and looks down again. 

“Um... I’m flattered. Look, I... I know how much you and Colin used to look up to me at school, but... that was a long time ago. The war was a long time ago. I’m just a man, now.”

“A _perfect_ man,” Dennis nearly croons. “I mean, for me, anyway. You’re kind, and generous, and strong, and brave, and... and modest and funny and _so_ handsome.” When Harry looks back up at him, it’s with surprise, green eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Dennis would give anything to lunge down and kiss them, but he stands his ground and says, “I know it’s not... really normal. But... I don’t care. I look up to you, but it’s more than that. I look forward to seeing you every day. Whenever you talk to me I feel lightheaded. I _adore_ this job just because I know I’m helping you. It’s not about the war. It’s about the way your eyes light up when you smile, or the way you notice when I bring you different things, or the way you ask what I’m going to do on the weekend like it actually matters what I say. Harry... I could go on about you forever.” He really, really could. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t have any other friends. 

Or maybe it’s because everyone else in the world just seems so dull and grey compared to Harry Potter, and Dennis doesn’t care if that’s fucked up. Harry’s kind of fucked up. He’d be the first person to admit it. Dennis just wants them to be fucked up together. 

Harry doesn’t say anything. He gets like that, sometimes, quiet, when things overwhelm him and he doesn’t know how to respond. As much as Dennis wants to fall to his knees or jump into Harry’s lap, he didn’t want to bring Harry any pain. He forces the folder away from his chest and holds it out, like offering up his safety blanket to get shredded, and Harry takes it from him without looking and drops it on the desk. Dennis mumbles, “I’ll go now.” But it takes him forever just to turn towards the door. 

Before he takes his first step, Harry says, “Tea.”

Dennis looks over his shoulder. “What?”

“We should have tea.” Harry’s face gets stronger as he says it, like he’s working up the resolve. But his cheeks are a bit pink. “Outside of the office. After work.” Dennis’ ears are buzzing. He must’ve heard wrong.

He’s so excited he thinks he might pass out. He hears his own voice say, “Thank you,” but doesn’t remember forming the words. “I... I’ll leave you to your work.” He doesn’t say that he’s free after this shift, because Harry knows him well enough to know. 

Harry nods his head and offers a little, hopeful smile. Maybe, in his own way, Harry’s scared, too.

Dennis nods back and leaves the office, walking on clouds.


End file.
